


A Royal Invitation

by out_there



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 17:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14337150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: His mum might have already ordered commemorative plates to celebrate, but as far as Greg's concerned, it's just another celebrity wedding.





	A Royal Invitation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magnetic_pole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetic_pole/gifts).



> magnetic_pole asked for Mycroft/Lestrade, upcoming royal nuptials. Unbetaed so all mistakes are mine.

No matter how many pages the Mail and the Mirror devote to the upcoming royal wedding, Greg doesn't care about it. He's got nothing against Prince Harry -- seems like a decent enough sort and if he wants to get married, good for him -- but Greg can't pretend to care about some stranger getting married, no matter how rich or photogenic they might be.

His mum might have already ordered commemorative plates to celebrate, but as far as Greg's concerned, it's just another celebrity wedding.

Not that the rest of the office agrees with him. Some bright spark wrote a countdown on one of the whiteboards and there's a collection of newspaper cuttings stuck below it, mostly about the location and the dress. There are far too many well-trained detectives using their skills to predict the amount of lace or length of sleeves.

Greg's turning a blind eye to it all. It's not worth him pulling everyone up on what's basically a bit of fun. If the public could see it, it'd be a different story but up in the bullpen, where the only one to see it is Sherlock -- who cares even less than Greg does -- well, Greg can overlook it.

He'd prefer not to know there were 36 days or 29 days or 17 days to go. But it's not doing any harm.

***

That stupid countdown says 11 days when Greg gets summoned by Mycroft Holmes. Well, he says summoned but really he steps out of NSY to find Anthea leaning on a black town car. She's dressed in black -- simple, tailored, a little too fashionable for most government employees -- thumbs working magic on her smartphone.

Greg decides to look on the bright side. At least it saves him a cab fare home and it's a lot nicer than taking the tube.

He doesn't bother asking what it's about. Just walks around the car and gets in the backseat. Anthea sits beside him but doesn't say anything, and Greg knows better than to ask for information she won't -- or can't -- give him.

They stop at the Diogenes Club and Greg's shown through to the Strangers Room. If it was government and bureaucracy, commands wrapped in the guise of interoffice cooperation, it would be Mycroft's oversized but bland office at the Department of Transport. If it was something serious, something that threatened national security or international relations, it would be the secretive, shadowy office under the Cabinet Office. The Diogenes usually means a favour for Sherlock, something Greg could refuse although he never has.

Mycroft is sitting at the desk, left hand on the laptop in front of him and fountain pen in the right. "Ah, DCI Lestrade," he says as if they haven't been meeting in various offices around Whitehall for over a decade now. He closes the laptop and places the pen gently across the page. "Good evening."

"Call me Greg," Greg says, as he has for the last five years or so. He doubts this will be the time that makes it stick, but that doesn't mean he'll stop trying.

"Thank you for coming." When Mycroft stands and walks around the desk, Greg can't help noticing the suit. It's a light grey check, paired with a sage green tie and pocket square, not one of the dour grey pinstripes that Mycroft usually wears. It looks good on him. "Drink?"

"Thanks," Greg says happily. Greg's not much of a whisky man, but the drinks here are always good, smooth and warming in a way that must be expensive. He waits for Mycroft to pour and bring the glasses over before asking, "So why am I here?"

"I find myself needing to ask a favour."

Greg sits back in the armchair. There's enough space between the chairs for him to stretch his legs out, and still not be in any danger of touching Mycroft. He takes a sip of his very good whisky, enjoying the moment. "Go on."

"You are under no obligation to agree," Mycroft states clearly. "But I find myself required to attend an upcoming social function and Anthea will be indisposed."

Greg wonders what that means. He's never got the impression that Anthea is any closer to Mycroft than professional decorum requires, but attending social functions together could mean there's more between them. She's attractive, Greg can't argue that, but he's never caught Mycroft noticing that fact. "Indisposed?"

"A couples retreat, apparently." There's a twist of Mycroft's mouth at the phrase, but no real sign of jealousy.

"And she usually goes to social functions with you?"

"It tends to be the most efficient way to avoid conversations with strangers," Mycroft says calmly. Apparently, using your assistant as a personal shield against socialising is a perfectly sensible thing to do. "But she won't be able to attend and I can't refuse the invitation without ruffling feathers."

Greg nearly laughs. "You want me to go along to protect you from dull conversations?"

"So terribly dull," Mycroft agrees fervently. "I could, of course, amend my RSVP to say I'm no longer bringing a guest. That is an option."

"But you'd rather attend with a human shield?"

"I'd prefer not to cause any last minute changes to seating arrangements." 

Mycroft takes a sip of his drink, slow and unhurried, nothing out of the ordinary here. It's a little too calm for a favour that had to be asked face to face. Over drinks, no less. "What's the catch?" Greg asks.

"It will be a formal occasion."

This from a man that Greg's never seen out of a three-piece suit and cufflinks. "How formal? Buckingham Palace? No sheets allowed?"

"Windsor Castle and no," Mycroft adds firmly, "there will be no sheets allowed."

Formal. At Windsor Castle. The timing feels too suspicious. "And this social outing, is it going to happen in eleven days time?" 

"Yes."

He's being invited to the royal wedding, Greg thinks, stunned at the thought. He wonders if his court suit is fancy enough for it. Is he going to have to make time to buy something new? "I thought it was supposed to be, you know, less formal. Sixth in line to the throne means he doesn't have to invite diplomats," Greg says faintly. It's been impossible not to read some of the articles that get taped to the board.

"Precisely," Mycroft says, both brows high. "The main benefit of that decision was that I wouldn't be invited. Yet I have been and therefore, I'm obliged to attend."

"You'd rather skip it?"

"Than spend the afternoon eating cake and making small talk with hundreds of community-minded members of the British public?" Mycroft asks, sweetly sarcastic.

The thing is... Greg knows he's going to say yes. If his Mum ever found out he'd been invited and not gone, he'd never hear the end of it. On her deathbed, she'd talk about him as her son who refused to go to Prince Harry's wedding. It would probably be in her will. So, yes, he's going to go but he's not going to be a pushover. "Luckily, I'm not doing anything that Saturday, but I have a few conditions."

"Such as?"

"How fancy is this going to be? Do I need a new suit--" Greg stops at Mycroft's upheld palm.

"I'll arrange an appointment at my tailor's. What else?"

"If I'm going," Greg says, swirling the last of the whisky before swallowing it for courage, "I'm going as your date."

Mycroft frowns, blinking once, twice, and then asks, "Why?"

"Since the divorce, weddings aren't as much fun as they used to be." Greg takes a breath and tells himself it's not a bad sign that Mycroft's peering at him like he's a particularly confusing insect. At least he has the man's attention, that's a start. "I've thought about asking you out before, but every time I see you it's always about work and Sherlock, and it's a bad time."

"But negotiating a personal favour is the right time?"

"I figure I'm doing you a favour by going, so you can do me a favour and agree it's a date. If you have a miserable time, well, you still got to avoid all that small talk. If you have a good time, maybe we could do it again without the crowds and royalty."

"You realise," Mycroft says, placing his empty glass on the table, "you could have negotiated far more profitable terms?"

"The trick to getting what you want is knowing what's worth going for." Greg stands up. He thinks it's best to get going while the going's good. "Let me know about the tailor."

***

As much as Greg might have hoped that the entire thing would blow over by the Monday after the wedding -- and that the whiteboard would be returned to whichever meeting room it was stolen from -- he's disappointed when he gets to the office. If anything, the number of articles has grown. There's a stack of photos of the wedding dress -- white lace and long sleeves, but apparently a marvel of modern fashion -- and someone's made a tally of who got which bits of it right.

The worst is when he gets to his office and finds a grainy newspaper picture photocopied and enlarged, and stuck to the glass wall. The happy royals are in the foreground, and behind them are a sea of faces at the official reception. Someone's taken a bright red marker and circled Greg's face in the crowd.

Mycroft has his head turned away from the photographer, he's only a blur of dark hair against a dove grey suit, impossible to recognise. Greg, on the other hand, is caught with his hands raised, telling Mycroft about John's stag party, about Sherlock and John getting locked up for being drunk and disorderly.

He remembers Mycroft listening intently, head leaning on one hand, warmly amused. Remembers Mycroft's sharp smile when he described Sherlock's disoriented hungover state the next morning.

"You're not funny, you lot," Greg calls out, ripping the photo down. From the sniggering behind him, they think they're hilarious.


End file.
